She hoped Mother wouldn't catch her eyeing through the window when he drove by. Everyday he'd pass through that bylane in his mini-truck, whose speakers blared out loud songs which soon became her favourite. Occasionally, he'd even stop right underneath her window, and she would sneak a glimpse and admire his muscular build and dreamy eyes and, if her day was fortunate, faintly hear a few words spoken in his raspy, melodious voice. He seemed like a Prince from the stories Mother would tell and she could barely stop herself from flashing a goofy smile at him. He didn't seem to notice.
He was the first she had seen of what Mother would describe as a Man. A lot of Men would pass by the window, but none so regular as him. Or charming. Well, that was the closest she would get to a Man on any given day. This was not a fair assumption though, for when Mother would leave the room after combing her hair, the turned-up music would drown out that which slipped through the momentarily open door― the words of those observing her through a one-way mirror, "... she has never been able to move or speak since birth... but she is able to hear and see; every morning when the garbage truck comes around, she seems to smile."